


"I Know What You Need, Brother!"

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Bickering, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Dark elements, Death Threats, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Jack the Ripper, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Eurus Holmes, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Creepy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Stress Relief, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-14 06:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: If your day has been nasty, if you have been surrounded by idiots all day, to whom can you turn if not to your brother? Brother knows what you need. Brother knows best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Graceless Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960533) by [hotchoco195](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195). 



> This is not as fluffy as my usual stories. I wanted them to be very close to their show-selves. But there's love and a lot of it.
> 
> "A Graceless Heart" was the first Mylock fic I ever read (and I read it and the follow up multiple times) and it stuck in my head. My story is definitely similar in a way but then, totally different :)
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960533

“No! I'm not going to explain it a second time!” Sherlock thundered. Idiots! Everybody he had met today had been an _idiot_!

“But I don't understand! Why would my niece do that to me?!” the old woman with the lilac hair and the starched white blouse sobbed.

“I. Told. You. Because she needs the money for her secret boyfriend,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, gathering his last bit of patience. It wasn’t much left and there had not been a lot of it to begin with. The imbeciles who had shown up in Baker Street had only brought him the most boring cases anyone could think of. A blindfolded five-year-old could have solved them! It was a disgrace and an insult for his brilliance!

“Sherlock…” John threw in, looking a tad annoyed and even more alarmed. Well, he knew the signs of a Sherlock about to explode.

The client, of course, did not. “But why! She's had it so good, living with me and my cats and…”

He rolled his eyes. “I have no idea! Perhaps she likes to get…”

“Sherlock!”

He broke off and got up so fast that his chair almost turned over. “Go, Mrs… Whatever! I have solved your case so now pi… go!”

The old woman took her purse and stood up, sobbing. “You're a nasty man, Mr Holmes!”

“Oh, am I? And I thought I just helped you!”

“It's alright, Mrs Henderson, I'll guide you to the door.” John gave him a piercing look while taking the client by her arm.

Sherlock snorted and took out his phone to fire off a text. It was about time.

_Diogenes or Cabinet? SH_

He didn’t have to wait more than five seconds.

_Oh, Sherlock, again? Can't you wait until I get home? MH_

_No, I can, in fact, not! That's at least two hours! No way! SH_

_Diogenes. But I'll be off to a meeting in forty-five minutes. MH_

Sherlock groaned. He hated to go to the Diogenes. Too quiet, this house! But the time should be sufficient.

_Be there in ten minutes. SH_

_Very well. I might have to gag you if you are as noisy as last time! MH_

Sherlock didn’t grace this affront with an answer. He just grabbed his coat and stormed off.

“Hey, where are you going?” John asked. He had been about to close the door behind the client.

“Out. Will be back in about an hour.”

“But there will be another client in…”

“They will have to wait then!” Sherlock grabbed the door handle.

“But where are you going again? You won't buy drugs, will you?!”

“Of course not! I'm clean! Need fresh air!”

“In London?”

Sherlock just growled and left 221B without another word. He had things to do. If he didn’t, he would kill someone until the day was over…

**°°°°°**

Sherlock raised a regal hand when he stormed through the office of Mycroft's PA. “Anthea.”

“Mr Holmes.” She didn’t say Mycroft was awaiting him. She didn’t sound or look curious or surprised. She didn't even look up from her phone. Sherlock dropping by at all times was nothing special.

He didn’t bother knocking but just entered his brother's office, closing and locking the door behind him without looking. Of course nobody just stalked into the British Government's office without an invitation. Not even the Queen would dare. But Sherlock always locked the door.

Of course his brother was on the phone. He was always on the phone… With the Prime Minister, judging from his silky tone. “Yes, sir, of course… It will be my pleasure…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pretended to gag and Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Sherlock just grinned and opened his trousers. He didn’t have any time to lose. Mycroft blinked rapidly a few times and turned his chair around.

Not wanting to stand around, let alone walk with his silly trousers around his ankles, Sherlock stepped out of his shoes and took them off along with his pants. He left the socks on because he didn’t want to get cold feet and because his brother loathed seeing him in socks and naked legs.

“Yes, sir, I'll make sure… Without a doubt…” He turned to Sherlock again, who was tapping on the table and glaring at him, pointing at his watch with the other hand. Mycroft grimaced and then he finally managed to get rid of his boss. “That was important!” He typed on his phone, certainly arranging any incoming calls being forwarded to Anthea – the usual procedure.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything is important for Mr Important,” Sherlock snarled. Then he turned around and prepped himself up on his forearms Mycroft's desk, which his brother had forehandedly cleared from all folders that might have lain on it. “You are the one who has to run off in thirty minutes so if you'd be so kind.”

Mycroft sighed but he couldn’t fool Sherlock. The sight of Sherlock's exposed arse right in front of his eyes would have already made his huge dick strain against his flies.

“Bad day, huh?”

“People! Why do we have to deal with _people_!” Sherlock whined. “I don't want them! I want puzzles!”

“Unfortunately they can't be entirely avoided. The puzzles come with the people,” Mycroft said reasonably, spreading Sherlock's cheeks even further.

Sherlock groaned quietly, his dick filling out at once at the first touch of his brother's large, warm hands. Soon it would push against the table top from under it. “Still it sucks…”

“Language, little brother.”

“Yeah, right. Says the man who's about to lick and then fuck my arse…”

Mycroft grumbled something and then he, like expected and desired, complained about the socks, but a second later his wet tongue pushed against Sherlock's quivering hole and the detective bit his lip. Mycroft had not acted on his threat to put a gag into his mouth to keep him from being loud but Sherlock didn’t have any doubt that he would do it if he couldn’t control himself. They were not that often in the Diogenes and Mycroft's Cabinet Office room was soundproof. It sucked to have to be quiet.

Sherlock did prefer meeting up in Mycroft's house but he wouldn’t have been able to wait any longer today, not with more clients to be dealt with. And there was something particularly naughty about being treated by his brother in his enclaves of power, with his PA sitting in the other room, who was oblivious or not; none of them knew that. But she would never say anything, neither to Mycroft nor to anyone else so that was fine.

Now very filthy noises started filling the room, and not for the first time Sherlock wondered what all the old men in their chairs in the other rooms of this building would say if they knew what was going on. Well, of course they wouldn’t say anything as talking was forbidden in these holy halls… They would probably silently drop from their chairs, clutching their hearts, respecting the stupid rules until their very last breath.

Ten years. That's how long they'd been doing this.

It had been the sixth time that Mycroft had come to a drug den to get him out. _“What shall I do, Sherlock? What? What will keep you from doing this?”_ His voice had been hoarse from exhaustion and worry. They had been sitting in his car in one of the nastiest quarters of London.

And Sherlock, twenty years old and rather fucked up, had said, _“Make my brain get silent. Make the voices in my head stop screaming around with deductions. Save me from being bored to death.”_

_“But how?!”_

And Sherlock had guided his hand to his crotch, and Mycroft had stared at him with wide eyes. _“No!”_

_“Yes. I know it will calm by brain down. And only **you** can do that. I don't want it with anyone else.”_

And after half a minute of deducing him and biting his lip, Mycroft had nodded, not entirely sure he wasn't being manipulated underneath this pitiful posture but assuming it was the only way, and from that day on, Sherlock had been clean. And whenever he had needed distraction and whenever it got all too much or if boredom was exhausting him, Mycroft had taken care of him. It worked fine and nobody – apart from perhaps Anthea who was as trustworthy as they got – knew about this arrangement. They had perfected their ways of letting everybody believe they were rather enemies than brothers so nobody would draw this conclusion.

When he had started working for the police and then for private clients, using his brain for solving cases had helped him getting rid of the boredom and had kept his brain occupied and focused. But dealing with normal, stupid people had brought another problem: Sherlock getting totally pissed off and wanting to throw them around. John could calm him down only so much. When the exasperation and the feeling of utter annoyance got too much, he would contact Mycroft. Or when Lestrade didn’t have any cases for him or the ones thrown at him were so tedious that they couldn’t save his brain from spinning, he would always contact his brother as sex kept him from getting high, being an addiction in itself but one his brother had agreed to indulge.

And Mycroft would do what he was doing now – inserting his large cock into Sherlock's willing hole after having prepared it with his tongue and two fingers and a generous amount of non-flavoured lubrication. Due to the circumstances – being in his office – he was wearing a condom. It was not their preferred choice but Mycroft had refused to ever clean up the floor and his chair from sperm again.

The moment his brother slid home in his well-used hole, Sherlock felt already like coming down from feeling wired and tense and volatile. The feeling of being stretched and filled by nothing else than his brother's gigantic cock always thrilled him and it had never worn off even after a decade.

Mycroft was standing behind him, his trousers opened but not pushed down, his large hands on Sherlock's slim hips, and he was rhythmically thrusting into him, keeping his noises of arousal to an absolute minimum of a little panting and groaning deep in his throat. And he would go on with his hammering until the precise moment of Sherlock hissing, “Now.”

The younger man did exactly this and a moment later the grip into his waist was getting rather painful and then his brother climaxed in him, sadly not painting him inside but filling up the sodding condom. Mycroft was still very quiet but the odd moan did escape his mouth while he was shuddering through his orgasm. Then he pulled out of Sherlock and dried up his lube-dripping hole with a few tissues and removed the impressively filled condom to store it in a few of said tissues and bin it after wiping his cock down. Then he tucked himself away and closed his trousers.

“Give me,” he said after sitting down in his chair, and Sherlock turned around to push his achingly hard cock into his brother's waiting mouth. No semen flying around, please, but he didn’t mind this side of the agreement at all.

Mycroft was sucking dick as fabulously as he was topping, and Sherlock, sitting on the desk, bit on his own hand while his climax was literally sucked out of him. Of course his impeccable brother swallowed his load and lapped over his oversensitive knob until it was shiny and clean. No precious drop of come had been shed.

On shaking legs, Sherlock got his trousers and shoes, and a minute later, he was dressed again.

“Better?” Mycroft asked him in a tone of utter professionalism, the phone already in his hand again.

“Yes. Guess I'll survive the rest of the day without strangling someone. Thanks.”

“Oh, it worked wonders already!” Mycroft mocked him but there was a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock grinned. “I'll leave you to your duties. See you soon.”

“Without a doubt.”

When Sherlock came back to Baker Street not even fifteen minutes later, John was sitting in the living room with an old man with messy long hair, who was holding onto an old briefcase as if his life depended on it.

“Good afternoon! How can I help you?” the detective asked with a wide grin.

John just shook his head, used to his strange change of moods but having no clue where it came from.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brattish Sherlock, bickering and more explicit smut. Happy Sunday! :)

“This is it?! Your only case?! My _mother_ could have solved it!” He had burst out with the solution within two minutes, not even bothering to show off. It wasn’t worth showing off.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock shot a wild look at John. He didn’t understand. He just didn’t get what Sherlock's brain was doing to him if it wasn't properly occupied. How could he? He was a smart man with a neat, normal brain, a man of science and a soldier with a soft spot for the odd adrenalin-rush. But compared to Sherlock, he _was_ an idiot.

“I'm very sorry I can't provide you with something more gripping,” Lestrade grumbled.

Speaking of idiots… Decent, reliable, loyal men devoted to their professions. But still idiots.

Sherlock was already fumbling for his phone. But he remembered all-too-well what Mycroft had told him two days ago: _“The next couple of days will be one meeting after the other. The election, you know?”_ Sherlock couldn’t remember which election and he didn’t care.

It was only three pm. Mycroft would never be able to meet him right now. He could only hope his brother would be free in the evening, and he could also only hope to cope until then without needing a different sort of distraction…

_Mycroft… SH_

_Oh, brother! I can’t! But I will be home around 8. MH_

_8?! SH_

_Come to my house. Use the treadmill. Or the punch bag. Rummage through my belongings! MH_

_Not even ten minutes? SH_

_No, Sherlock. Not possible. No drugs! MH_

_Damn… All right… I will go over to your place and try to occupy myself. SH_

_Don't blow up the house! MH_

_Can't promise that. SH_

_I will try to come home earlier. Be strong. MH_

_I will. See you. SH_

_Bye, brother mine. MH_

Sherlock could have gone to St. Bart's and do an experiment. But he knew it wouldn’t help. He could have, God forbid, find someone else to have sex with, but he would never do that. It wouldn't work. He had tried… Only once but the experience had been so nasty that he would never do it again.

All he could do now was trying to either exhaust himself by working out or find something to do until his brother came home.

“Bye,” he said to John and Lestrade, ignoring their puzzled faces.

“Where are you going?” John asked.

“Doing stuff,” Sherlock replied and disappeared with flapping coat tails, a pounding heart and a mood as black as his hair.

**°°°°°**

“Finally!”

“Actually I'm earlier than I told you,” Mycroft said calmly. “Look at you…”

“Just took a shower…”

“After working out for how long – three hours?”

It had been three and a half. An hour of running on the stupid treadmill and two-and-a-half hours beating down the punch bag (which Mycroft had only bought for him) while occupying his tormenting brain with Euler equations. Then a very long, very hot and then very cold shower. It had helped a bit but Sherlock needed something else. And he needed it now.

Only that he wouldn’t get it right now. He glared at the bag in Mycroft's hand. “No! No eating! Sex!”

Mycroft sighed. “It might surprise you, Sherlock, but I had a very long day with very little time for my basic needs. Sipping at tea was the best I could get. I'm starving and please, tell me: when did you eat something substantial last?”

“Ah! Eating! Fuck eating!”

“Well, if you care to be fucked by me, you will eat with me first,” Mycroft retorted, and the obscenity came over his lips without so much as a twitch.

“All right! Give it here!”

“No. We will behave like civilised people and eat in the living room with a well-laid table.”

“Yeah, takeaway food!”

“Oh, you want me to cook you a complicated meal first?” Mycroft asked him with raised eyebrows and a fine smile. “I will have to go buying groceries then. It will only take…”

“Argh!” Sherlock turned on the spot and stalked to the kitchen to get some bloody cutlery and dishes.

“Don't break something!” Mycroft shouted behind him, and Sherlock could hear the smug smirk in his voice.

Damn brother, forcing him to eat! Forcing him to behave! He would never stop it, would he?!

**°°°°°**

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“What?! I'm eating! You wanted me to eat!” Sherlock said rather indistinctly around the food he'd been chewing on and shovelled the rest of the Chinese noodles into his mouth.

Mycroft sighed. “Yes. Be careful what you wish for…” he mumbled.

“Finished!”

“Well, I am not! You allow me to eat up?”

Sherlock slumped down in his chair. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Oh brother. Five minutes, all right?”

“Yes…”

“And I'll need to take a shower, too…”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt exhausted, but not in a good way. He felt as if he was losing it all. His brain was whirling, a black vortex that seemed to suck him in.

“Sherlock! Come back!”

“Haven't gone anywhere…” he brought out, and then he was pulled up from the chair and guided to the sofa. Sherlock was glad they hadn't eaten in the big dining room. No soft surface there…

“I haven't seen you in such a state for ages. Come, let me lend you a hand first. Will that help?” Mycroft went down on his knees in front of the couch.

“Oh, please!”

“Does it really not work if you do it yourself?” Mycroft asked him, not annoyed but worried. But of course he didn’t ask it for the first time and it was totally redundant.

“No! Don't you think I'd wank all the time if that was sufficient?! It isn't! And before you ask: no, it doesn't work with anyone else, either!”

“I have never asked you for doing that,” Mycroft said, his eyes piercing, while his left hand was working its way into Sherlock's pants.

“No, you didn’t. Oh, yes, that feels nice… But I'll still need you to fuck me!”

“I will,” Mycroft soothed him and then they didn’t speak anymore while he was expertly pumping and masturbating him, using Sherlock's rich pre-come as lubricant, the only noise the clashing of skin on skin and Sherlock's muffled moaning. He had buried his face into a sofa pillow, fully concentrated on the divine things his brother could do with his hand.

Mycroft deduced the exact moment when Sherlock was about to come, and he replaced his hand with his firmly sucking mouth when the detective cried into the pillow, and Sherlock shuddered through his climax while spilling down his brother's throat.

“Makes up for the food you didn’t get,” he mumbled, lifting his head.

Mycroft grinned and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “Pig. I will reheat it later.” He stood up, groaning when his knees creaked. “Can you manage to go upstairs?”

“Yes. It's better now. Need more though!”

Mycroft sighed but it didn’t sound exasperated. “You mentioned. And I promised. Let me take a quick shower and shave and then I'll see to you properly.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said seriously.

There was a flicker in Mycroft's eyes. “You're welcome, little brother. See you in fifteen minutes. Perhaps you could try to nap a bit. On the bed; it’s more comfortable.”

Sherlock got up slowly. “Won't work.”

“What was so special about today?” Mycroft asked him while they were leaving the room.

“Nothing, really. I don't know… Sometimes… it's just worse.”

Mycroft nodded. “I'll make it better.”

“How did _you_ cope then today? When it was so busy you couldn’t even eat?”

“It was surprisingly all right. Tomorrow will be a challenge though… Trouble with a diplomat's family has occurred and they need to be taken care of. Ghastly people…”

“Aren't they all? Well, you know what to do…”

Mycroft smiled. “I do. Well, then – off you go.”

Sherlock nodded and slowly walked upstairs while his brother turned to the downstairs bathroom, feeling definitely better but not entirely released from the troubles of his brain. He needed a lasting relief. Sufficient for at least today and tomorrow.

**°°°°°**

Sherlock had not bothered making light in the bedroom. He was lying on his back on Mycroft's large bed, completely naked – no socks this time – and his cock was hard again. His hand was loosely wrapped around it. He felt like smoking a cigarette but that was not an option now. Mycroft would have his guts for garters if he smoked in his house, let alone his bedroom. And Sherlock had already had three cigarettes on this lousy day.

A lousy day that had improved a lot and would improve even more now.

A pale stream of light came from the hallway when Mycroft opened the door that had been ajar. Sherlock could see he was dressed in a robe. A smell of body wash and deodorant engulfed him but he had foregone putting on aftershave as Sherlock had a very sensitive nose and it was just too much.

“All right?” Mycroft asked while smoothly crossing the almost dark room.

“Yes. Will soon be better.”

Mycroft went to a wardrobe and took a towel out of it. Then he slipped out of the robe and sat down on the bed. Sherlock could see that his hair was still damp. “Yes it will. So – which position?”

“I'm not going to move anymore. Only my arse will.”

“Hm. Hand me a pillow then, please?” He put it under Sherlock's bottom after the detective had gladly lifted it, and he had covered it with the soft towel.

Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest, grabbing them with his hands, giving his brother the best access. Mycroft's throat moved three times in quick succession at the particularly naughty sight. Sherlock's cock started dripping onto his stomach without having been touched any further. His eyes never left his brother's face and then Mycroft looked up from the obviously arousing picture and their eyes met. Sherlock couldn’t see much of them in the spare light but he saw enough to identify worry, hunger and compassion in the icy-blues.

Ten years and it was still as breathtaking as the first time.

Mycroft gazed at him while lowering his head but then he chose to not go cross-eyed and it felt like a loss when he looked down.

But not for long.

Without a moment of hesitation, Mycroft started preparing his hole by licking it loose and the contact of his wet tongue with Sherlock's soft flesh made up for the loss of eye contact.

“Oh fuck, Mycroft, what you're doing… It should be forbidden…”

“It is.” Mycroft winked and went on, and Sherlock snorted.

“Smartarse…”

“I could say a lot to that… But now try to relax, brother mine, and let me do my job.”

Sherlock's hands were cramping into his thighs while he was being expertly licked. His brother's tongue was very long, very hot and very capable, and it managed to reach spots Sherlock couldn’t even name. One of Mycroft's big hands was holding his ballsack so it didn’t get in the way, and the warmth of his palm seemed to burn into the smooth, sensitive skin.

Sherlock was sweating and wiggling, his senses on edge, his entire body far from being relaxed. He could have come just by this treatment, and very often he'd had. His untouched cock was almost unbearably hard and leaking copious amounts of clear fluid and Sherlock was very close already. But he wanted, _needed_ more tonight.

“Oh, please… Need you inside…”

“Fine. Two fingers?”

“No! No fingers! You! Now!” Sherlock let his legs go down, his hips aching from the previous position but making sure to not kick his brother accidentally.

“That's not wise.”

“Please! Just get into me!”

“All right! Calm down!” Mycroft grabbed the lubrication from its place on the nightstand and squeezed a generous amount onto Sherlock's quivering entrance, and then he quickly coated himself with it. No condoms in this bedroom or anywhere else in this house.

Mycroft proceeded to line up in front of him but Sherlock shook his head. “Not like that.”

The old man scrutinised him and then he briefly nodded and came to rest on his forearms to both sides of Sherlock's head. “Guide me in then.”

Sherlock reached for his brother's hot penis and unceremoniously pushed it inside his anus.

“Damn, Sherlock, don't use me to hurt yourself!”

“Not hurting. Feels great.” Mycroft looked a tad disbelieving but Sherlock brought his arms around his neck. “Go on. Fuck me, Mycroft. Fuck my brain quiet.”

“If that really worked…”

“It works well enough…”

And Mycroft started taking him, with slow, deep strokes, and whenever he slid in completely, Sherlock moaned. His hands were pinching and rubbing his brother's back and neck, and once he unwillingly poked a finger into Mycroft's ear. His brother winced but didn’t say anything, and their breathing was in synch now, both men panting and vibrating with energy.

Sherlock slung his legs around his brother, urging him to take him harder. Their cheeks were rubbing against each other until Sherlock turned his head, kissing his brother's neck, feeling his breath on his face. And then Mycroft bent his own head, and their mouths met for a messy, wet kiss, their tongues pushing against each other in the rhythm of Mycroft's strokes, so familiar and yet so special.

Sherlock's cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbing on Mycroft's soft, hairy belly, soiling it with its wetness, and Sherlock groaned into his brother's mouth when his climax came closer. He kissed him even more frantically, willing to literally devour his brother, and Mycroft was thrusting very hard into him now and moaning at every deep stroke.

“Yes…” Sherlock mumbled, only half-conscious in his all-encompassing arousal, and then he bit his brother's bottom lip when he was carried away on the wild waves of an extremely strong orgasm, his muscles clenching hard around his brother's dick, and Mycroft followed him within an instant, spilling into Sherlock's welcoming canal, and the feeling of hot wetness erupting in him ripped another spurt of Sherlock's still rock-hard cock, shooting up between their bodies. Mycroft collapsed on him, thoroughly spent, his cock still inside Sherlock, and Sherlock felt nothing but bliss. His special brain had shut up, finally leaving him alone, and it was a feeling of peace that couldn’t be compared to anything else. He wasn’t feeling numb; the normal part of his mind was still working, but the screaming had stopped.

Mycroft kissed him again and Sherlock tasted blood.

“Oh, sorry!”

“No worries. It's just a scratch.”

“Thank you. That was… good.”

Mycroft smiled and rolled to his side after disentangling from him. “My pleasure.”

“I do think so.”

“Don't be smug.”

“Right. You're the smug one.”

“I believe it was the 'smart one'.”

“Both, Mycroft, both.”

“I can live with that… Shower?”

“Oh, not now!”

“Then allow me to clean you up.”

“Licking it up?”

“Nice try.” Well-prepared as always, Mycroft presented a package of wet wipes and cleaned Sherlock's stomach up thoroughly and he also dried Sherlock's dripping hole with the soiled towel and flung it onto the floor.

Sherlock wished he could have just fallen asleep. But he had to go back to Baker Street. He never stayed over. To his brother's relief, he was sure. Mycroft needed his space to prepare himself for the next demanding day in the office.

For a few minutes, they were lying next to each other, neither of them speaking. It was not necessary. Then Mycroft got up. “I'll shower first if you don't mind.”

“It's _your_ house.”

“You could go downstairs.”

“I could. Won't though.”

“Didn't expect you to.”

And while he was away, Sherlock did doze off. Not deep and not for long, and when his brother came back a few minutes later, he opened his eyes. “How's your lip?”

“Stopped bleeding. It's fine. Little incubus…”

Sherlock grinned. “I'm not into blood, brother. Was an accident.”

“Better that than biting off my ear, I suppose.”

“Should think so. Your glasses would look strange on only one ear.” Sherlock finally moved and stood up. He stretched and yawned.

“Nice to see I've worn you out.”

“Only very temporarily,” Sherlock assured him. He could feel his brother's stare on his arse when he walked from the bed, and he grinned and made sure to wiggle his hips.

“Show-off,” Mycroft mumbled.

“Yep.” Sherlock was feeling good. Very good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This arrangement works both ways, of course.

Mycroft Holmes shifted on his chair and cleared his throat. “Regarding your nephew, Your Excellency…”

The ambassador laughed and patted Mycroft's knee. Again. “Boys, Mr Holmes!”

Mycroft's thin-lipped smile turned into a grimace. He did not appreciate being touched. He _loathed_ it, in fact – exceptions proved the rule. One exception, to be precise, and this man wasn't it.

He couldn’t show his disgust of course. Mycroft had long years of experience in hiding it. But it was a real challenge today.

He cleared his throat. “Your nephew, Your Excellency, is…”

“A tad wild, I give you that!”

“That is one way to put it…”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me, Mr Holmes?”

“But of course not. I would like to merely point out that the young man's behaviour is a tad problematic.” That was a slight understatement. Said young man was involved in theft and fraud, and he obviously had some problems with appropriate behaviour towards young British women as well. And of course he had been granted diplomatic immunity…

Which the ambassador knew all too well. “Ah, young people. He still has to find his place.”

As far as Mycroft was concerned, this place should be a prison cell. But that would not happen. He wondered why he had to deal with this nonsense. He was not in the position to threaten the man or the miscreant himself. He could only ask to consider changing the unwelcome demeanour. And he knew it wouldn’t work. What a proper waste of his precious time…

“Tea, Mr Holmes? As you English people drink that all day?” The man pinched his thigh and Mycroft's right hand twitched.

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” he said, trying not to slap the fat face and stalk away.

Some days just royally sucked. And so would the tea, he was sure…

**°°°°°**

“Agent Monaghan. Sit down, please.” Mycroft gestured at the visitor's chair.

The young woman slowly crossed his office and gingerly sat down. Her dark-red hair was in a strict ponytail, her face with the large blue eyes serious. “Sir. Why…”

“Why! Yes! Good question!” Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Is it about Sam Wentworth?”

“Good guess. Yes. Sam Wentworth indeed. Our terror suspect. So close to being arrested, thanks to your hard work. And now… gone with the wind.”

She bit her lip. “Yes, I mean…”

“Because you told him our lot was coming,” Mycroft said coldly, dropping his jovial demeanour.

“No! I did not! Why…”

“Because you got involved with him, to put it discreetly.”

“No, that's a lie!” She nearly jumped up from her chair. “I didn't do anything with him and I didn’t warn him…”

“Yes you did. And now you have the nerve to lie to my face! Don't you know who I am?! I can deduce you! You stupidly fell in love with this man and gave everything away! All the work of months, finished!” He couldn’t keep his wrath from his voice anymore, his cool façade vanishing.

“Fuck you!”

“Thank you.” Mycroft wished someone else had taken care of this. He had enough. But Elizabeth Smallwood, who had been supposed to confront the young agent, had been indispensable thanks to the mess this girl had made.

“I'm going!”

“Oh yes. Straight to prison.” Not quite of course. Bureaucracy didn’t work that fast. But in the end she would.

“Oh no! You can't prove anything! I didn’t confess anything!” Her eyes were full of tears, her pretty features nothing more than a grimace.

Mycroft sighed. This all was most unpleasant. What was wrong with these young people today? Oh, yes - everything… “Go into your office and get your stuff together. This was your last day serving this country.” He almost spat out the last couple of words. “Some friendly men will accompany you and you will be dealt with accordingly.” It wasn’t his job anymore. He'd only had to be a hundred percent sure that she was guilty. Now others would take over to prove it and then lock her away.

“You fucking…”

“Shut up! Go!” Mycroft waved her away, his heart-rate increased. He didn’t need this! He needed…

She ran out of the room with clacking heels and slammed the door so hard that a picture of him and the Queen fell off the wall. His lips pressed together, he grabbed a folder from his desk and stormed out after gathering his coat and his umbrella.

“I'm going to visit my brother and Doctor Watson,” he informed Anthea.

“Yes, sir. I will call the car.”

“Thank you.” And with this he stalked down the corridor.

This day was just horrid. But it wouldn’t end like this, he hoped.

**°°°°°**

“Damn, that was good!” John let himself fall into his chair.

“Yes. Easy case but still funny.”

“Easy?! Nobody would have thought it was the butler!”

Sherlock gave him a smug smile. “Nobody?”

“Well, nobody except _you_ of course.”

“Which is because…”

John sighed. “…we are all idiots…”

“Thank you. Oh… We have a visitor.”

“How…”

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock crossed his legs. “Would you open up, John? It's my brother.”

“How… Never mind… I'm going. As I'm the houseboy.”

“One of your many honourable occupations.”

“Twat.”

“Butler.”

John chuckled and Sherlock grinned. But his face fell when he heard his brother's steps on the stairs. Slow. Heavy. Not a good day.

And then Mycroft came in, followed by John. He looked ghastly. Annoyed to the core. Close to strangle someone…

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“I need your help on a case.”

It was the first time since John and Sherlock had moved into Baker Street that Mycroft showed up, asking for assistance. But they had agreed on how Sherlock should react to such a scenario – being asked for help by his alleged 'archenemy'.

“No. I'm busy.”

John looked confused. There were no clients waiting. Lestrade hadn't called. Sherlock didn’t have an experiment going.

Mycroft sighed. “It's about a man named Lord Russel Bermont. He is a member of the Parliament – and his wife is obviously involved with a man high in the ranks of the Triads. I need you to investigate if that is true and if it influences the Lord's voting behaviour.”

Sherlock yawned. “Boring.”

“Well, Sherlock, we could have a look,” John said, glancing at the politician.

“I would very much appreciate it.” Mycroft handed the folder he had brought to John, who took it with a rather irritated expression. “I need results as soon as possible.”

 _Results_ … The code word.

Sherlock sighed. “All right! I'm sure we'll have something until… seven-thirty.”

Mycroft nodded. “That would be much appreciated.”

Sherlock could definitely see it was.

**°°°°°**

“Finally…” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He was sitting in Mycroft's armchair with his legs crossed.

“Yes,” Mycroft said darkly. “Finally.” He had got rid of his coat and umbrella in the hallway and now he took off his jacket. His shirt was uncharacteristically crumpled and his tie lopsided.

“Hellish day, huh?”

“You could say that. What's that?”

“Dinner. Thought they might have not let you eat again.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Wow. You brought _dinner_. Are you all right?”

“Funny, Mycroft. Like your _case_.” Sherlock mimed quotation marks.

“The wife's not involved with the mafia man then, huh?” Mycroft asked calmly.

“Not in the least!” In fact she was involved with her maid.

“I couldn’t be sure. Thank you.”

“You know – you could have just texted, as usual!” Not that it happened so frequently. It had been ages… His brother definitely had too much self-control. But he had apparently run out of it today.

Mycroft sighed. “I needed a change of scenery.”

“You could have had a stroll in St. James's Park.”

“It was raining.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Come, let's eat. As I laid the table so nicely.”

“You did. Thank you.”

Sherlock eyed him closely. He could see his brother was already coming down from his day full of anger and frustration. Good. About to get better.

Mycroft gave him a half-smile. “I hope I'm not keeping you from any interesting matters. Mysterious cases. Breath-taking experiments. Impressing admirers with your brilliance.”

Sherlock ignored the good-natured teasing and opened the box with the lasagne. “Nah. My work's done for today.”

“Not quite.”

“'s not work.” He provided Mycroft with a generous serving.

“Isn't it?” Mycroft filled their glasses with the red wine Sherlock had brought.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “No. It is not.”

“Good.”

For the next few minutes, the Holmes brothers ate in companionable silence.

**°°°°°**

Sherlock had taken care of putting the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher while Mycroft had hurried to take a shower.

Now he was walking upstairs, whistling. Then went downstairs again to get the small bottle he had left in his coat pocket.

In Mycroft's bedroom, he quickly undressed and covered the duvets with two large towels, and then he lay down on the bed, closing his eyes for a moment. He was feeling rather relaxed. And he would make sure that his brother would soon feel the same way.

In fact he was so relaxed that he fell into a slumber but he woke up at once from the dipping of the mattress.

Mycroft was wearing a dark-blue robe, and the curl on his forehead was wet. “Sleepy, huh?”

“Ah, just passing the time.” Sherlock made room for his brother and pointed at the bottle on the nightstand with a questioning look.

Mycroft nodded. “Definitely.” He slipped off his robe, scrambled onto the bed and lay down on the towels, presenting Sherlock his back.

After warming a small amount of the pine-flavoured massage oil between his palms, Sherlock went to work.

He began with the tensest parts – Mycroft's shoulders. They were one hard knot. And they were more than a little bit hairy, which always brought a smile on Sherlock's face.

“I can see you grinning,” Mycroft promptly mumbled into the pillows while Sherlock started kneading his sore muscles in earnest, the long violinist fingers brought to good use.

“No, you can't,” Sherlock said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice.

But he could see the smile on his brother's face when the older man slightly turned his head.

“You could have shaved me first.”

“I wouldn’t have got to the massage until dawn.” Sherlock worked his way down to Mycroft's sides, making sure to not tickle him. He was lucky his nose had healed without looking forever as if a very pissed-off boxer had had his way with him.

Mycroft snorted. “Twat.”

“What was that?”

“I said: great. You're doing that very well.”

Sherlock grinned wider. “Everything for the sake of our fabulous nation.”

“Yes, right.”

Sherlock gave his brother's pert (and smooth) bum a heartfelt smack for this double insolence. And because he liked to.

“Ow!”

“Just getting the tension out of you, brother dear.”

Mycroft wisely didn’t respond to that and stayed and kept still while Sherlock was taking care of his long back. And then his thighs. His calves. His feet – very careful again. The British Government was painfully ticklish. Sherlock also didn’t need another undeliberate kick into his private parts.

Mycroft was seriously relaxing now; Sherlock could feel it. He was melting, the stress of the day leaving his body.

He could have had this more often – Sherlock taking care of him instead of the other way around. They could have it both in one session. But the older man always waited until his job was really getting the best of him and he just couldn’t get through without a proper relief anymore. Of course the many times a month he saw to Sherlock helped him as well. But this was special. A surrender. Asking for release. For another form of assistance. Which was always granted.

“Okay?” Sherlock quietly asked.

“Yes. Very much. Thank you.”

Sherlock closed the bottle and stretched to put it onto the nightstand. And got another bottle instead and laid it onto the bed. It would be needed soon.

There was one part of Mycroft's back he had not seen to (apart from the slap). Because massage oil tasted awful.

He spread his brother's legs wider so he could settle between them. Then he spread his cheeks to reveal his pink, puckered hole, twitching delightfully. He ran his right thumb over it. It seemed to back away and then opened up invitingly.

“Hello! Long time no see!”

Mycroft gave a sound not many people ever heard from him – a very undignified giggle.

Sherlock smirked and then lowered his head to lick a firm stripe over the quivering opening, and Mycroft moaned into the pillows.

The younger man at once decided to not wait months again before indulging his brother and himself again with this particular treat. Mycroft definitely enjoyed himself while Sherlock was slowly but very firmly licking him and Sherlock was high on pheromones at this unique taste. It was heady and musky and earthy and so intimate, and he could have gone on for hours. No whirlwind in his brain now – he was completely focused on this very pleasurable task of redeeming his brother.

He licked and lapped, spat and nibbled, intruded and caressed, and Mycroft was wiggling on the bed as if under the influence of electricity. Finally Sherlock nuzzled his face firmly into his crack, sniffing at him while licking his perineum and sliding a finger into him, and Mycroft groaned.

“God, Sherlock…”

“That's the accurate address.”

Mycroft chuckled but it sounded rather desperate so Sherlock decided to take the next step. He quickly lubed himself up and squeezed some of the sticky fluid on and in Mycroft's hole. Then he lined up and circled the wrinkled flesh with the engorged and dripping tip of his cock, then dipped it in carefully, just a tiny bit. And then a bit more. Mycroft was panting, his right hand reaching back to grab Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock tutted. “Patience, brother mine.”

“Ha! And that from you?!”

“Shut up or I'll go.”

“Empty threat…”

“Very… There you go…” Sherlock, prepped up on his hands on both sides of his brother's head, finally slid in deeper. He moaned at his long penis being engulfed by his brother's tight, sticky heat and he pushed forward inch by inch until he was buried in him to the hilt, and then he stilled, giving Mycroft time to adjust to the intrusion.

He knew Mycroft loved it – giving up control for a change. Hand it over to him, the only man he unconditionally trusted. The other person might be Anthea and that was fine with Sherlock as she was definitely not a man.

But he refrained from any stupid small talk. It was neither needed nor necessary, let alone something Mycroft would appreciate. He simply took care of his brother's need to surrender, even if only for a few minutes.

Soon he fell into a steady rhythm, the only noise the squelching of the penetration and the meeting of their damp skin, as well as quiet panting and sometimes a little louder moaning from either of them.

They did not do that often but once would have been enough to burn into Sherlock's brain and to know exactly how to stroke and which angle to use to reach the best results. He suppressed his own longing for climaxing until he could feel and hear his brother's orgasm build up. He sped up his movements, trusting deeper and making sure to hit the man's prostate at every stroke, and then he closed his eyes firmly when Mycroft groaned and his muscles constricted painfully around Sherlock's cock. He let go and came, too, flooding his brother's passage while Mycroft was soaking the towels under him. A feeling of euphoria and pride took over in him, and he carefully retreated to lie down next to his panting partner.

“Damn,” Mycroft mumbled then. “I'd kill for a cigarette now.”

Sherlock grinned. “Next time I'll bring nicotine patches.”

Mycroft grumbled something. “I'm dripping,” he said then.

“Oh. My bad.” Sherlock hurried to get some tissues and cleaned the older man up.

“Much obliged.”

Sherlock binned the soiled tissues and lay back again.

“I need a shower,” Mycroft rumbled after a while.

“You certainly do.”

“Will you stay until I'm finished?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

Sherlock watched him getting up, taking the towels with him. His brother's usually impeccable hairdo was a mess and his face was flushed and sweaty. Just as it should be.

Mycroft just raised his left eyebrow and gave him a wink, and Sherlock grinned at him.

Task completed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is in trouble. But of course he is not left alone with it. Baby Brother shows his creepy side.

“There… The murderer came from there.” Sherlock pointed at the back door. “And then he walked straight upstairs.”

“Yes,” John breathed, following him up the stairs.

“Dirt. The woman was so clean she would have removed it at once.” The house was exceptionally neat. The furniture was old but in very good shape.

“Right!”

“He sneaked into her bedroom and waited for her.” He pointed at the dirty footprints behind the door. Amateur!

Lestrade caught up with him. “And what do you conclude from that?”

“He knew her. He was in this house before. He didn’t hesitate, went straight to the bedroom.”

“So he knew where it was.”

“Yes. And he knew her routine. Knew exactly when she'd be at home. A colleague.”

“Really?! But she worked for a priest!”

“There you have him.”

“Seriously?!” Lestrade's eyes were even bigger than usual.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes! He was crazy for her, God knows why. Oops…”

“Sherlock…” John shook his head, grinning.

“Anyway… Pull him in. Tell him God saw everything. That should do…” Sherlock turned to leave the victim's house.

“Brilliant!” Lestrade shouted after him.

Sherlock put his coat collar up. “Nothing new, Gus!”

“Greg,” the doctor corrected him as always.

“I know.”

John giggled, and the Baker Street Boys left to go back and see what the day would bring them.

Sherlock wondered how his brother would be doing after being so thoroughly attended to the evening before.

**°°°°°**

Mycroft rolled his eyes, making a noise or uttering a word from time to time so the man on the other end of the line thought he was listening. But he could have spoken the words for him after hearing the same old story for about six times.

_“Absolutely!”_

_“Hm!”_

_“Right!”_

It was ghastly.

A knock on his door made him first wince and then smile. “I have to go now; I'm expected at a meeting.” He wasn't but the man would have heard the knock as well. Reluctantly he allowed Mycroft to end the call.

And before he could say, 'come in', his door was opened and Elizabeth Smallwood came in. Followed by Sir Edwin and the Prime Minister. Their faces were serious.

Mycroft sat straight up. “What happened?” An attack at the Queen? A terror threat?

Anthea showed up, bringing another chair. Her face was a mask of confusion, and that was an expression he didn’t often see on the features of his trusted PA.

Neither of them said a word until they were all seated. Anthea had left the office again.

“So?” Mycroft asked, his brow furrowed.

The PM cleared his throat. “Yesterday you spoke with Agent Sabrina Monaghan.”

“Yes, I did. Sam Wentworth, the man who got away because of her.”

Elizabeth Smallwood nodded. “You confronted her with that.”

“Of course I did! Well, actually _you_ would have been supposed to do it…”

“Mr Holmes… What happened yesterday?” Sir Edwin asked sternly.

Mycroft shook his head, feeling as confused as Anthea had looked. “What… I told her that she was lying when she denied it! I told her she would go to prison for it.”

“Nothing else…”

“No!”

“Do you have a recording of this interrogation?”

Mycroft snorted. “It was not an interrogation! I merely told her about the facts. And you know very well there are no cameras in this office.”

“Shame… Your PA said she wasn't with you either.”

“No, why should she! She never is!” And then Mycroft understood what this all was about, and he paled.

The PM nodded. “She said you harassed her. Sexually.”

“What?!” He had seen it coming and still it was a shock. He looked over to Elizabeth, whom he had known for the longest of all the people in the room. “I did nothing like this. I am not even interested in women!” He had never outed himself. What for? There was only one man in his life and he could never exactly bring him to a dinner party… But Elizabeth of all people should know it anyway… He had turned her off quite clearly…

She nodded. “I thought so… But you will understand that we can't ignore these accusations.” She sounded rather cold.

Mycroft closed his eyes. This could only be a bad joke. But it wasn't. He had been an idiot. He should have foreseen that. The woman had nothing to lose. It was the only card she could have played… Of course, even if he had really done that, it would change nothing about her guilt. But it would discredit him thoroughly if anyone believed it. He glanced at the PM. He looked worried. Of course – he feared the media. If the agent sold her story to a reporter… She had probably not had a chance to do it so far. Otherwise he would know it already…

Sir Edwin looked as if he didn’t know if he should believe it or not.

To hell with them all…

“So what now? I'm suspended?”

“Just until we've cleared this up.”

Mycroft huffed out a bitter laugh. “How? There are no witnesses. It's her word against mine. And it is quite clear whom you believe.” After all he'd done for this kingdom. But why did that surprise him?

“That's not true. But we…”

Mycroft stood up. “Fine. Let me know when you've cleared my name.” His tone was sarcastic to say the least.

“Your phone,” Sir Edwin said.

“Pardon?!”

“It's your work phone. It has to stay here.”

Mycroft bit his lip. Then he pulled out his phone that he only used for work and for brief texting with his brother. He always deleted the texts afterwards and they did not use to exactly do 'sexting' with each other… He put it onto his desk. Then he took his coat and his umbrella and without another look at either of the people he'd been working with for years, he left his office.

Anthea was standing in front of her desk, her face pale. “I'm sorry, sir. I should have told them I was in there with you and her. But they surprised me with this question.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I'd never expect you to lie for me. Well… I don't know if I will ever come back so…”

“Don't say that! You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Yes, I did. I should have never spoken to her alone. That was a stupid mistake…”

Anthea looked as if she was about to cry and Mycroft couldn’t have it. He murmured a 'goodbye' and then he left with slow, heavy steps.

On his way out he fully realised what was happening here. He had been outsmarted. Even if they managed to clear his name as there couldn’t be any evidence for his guilt as he was not guilty, his position was weakened. The shadow of doubt would remain. He had failed miserably.

He stepped out in the cool air. There was no car waiting for him. He had fallen from grace.

Where should he go?

There was only one answer to that. He wanted to go home and hide away but Sherlock had to be informed that his phone was not in his hands anymore.

Of course he could and should have got another phone but he just couldn’t face any stranger now.

When he sat on the backseat of the cab, his face like granite, the driver sparing him any chattering, he felt as if his whole world had been shattered.

**°°°°°**

This time Sherlock neither heard the doorbell nor his brother coming up the stairs. He was in the kitchen, bent over a sample of rotten human flesh, fully concentrated on his experiment. John had been on the phone with his mother and Sherlock had shut down his hearing as well as he could.

His brother's voice came through though.

“Is Sherlock here?”

“Yes, he's in the kitchen. Not cooking. I hope not… Are you all right?”

Sherlock let the sample fall onto the table and stalked into the living room. Something was wrong.

He stood dead when he saw his brother. The day before he had looked exhausted, annoyed and at the end of his tether. Today it was a million times worse.

_Someone died. Our mother or father. No. It's not grief. Not that sort of grief at least. He's got bad news from his doctor. No. Nothing's wrong with his health. Saw him yesterday. All fine. Smelled and tasted healthy. And great._

_Work. It has to do with his bloody work. No terror attack. Would know about that. Something personal._

_Something really nasty._

Staring at his brother's pale face, he said, “John. We need milk. Will you go buy milk, please?”

“What, now? I'm sure there's some left.”

Sherlock turned and glared at the blond man and John winced.

“Oh, no, now that you mention it. Be back… soon.” John grabbed his jacket and then he was gone.

“Mycroft.”

His brother looked at him, his gaze unsteady.

“Sit down. Tell me what's wrong.”

Mycroft grimaced. “I… Don't text me, Sherlock.”

No. Nobody could have found out about them, could they?! How?!

“I… don't have my phone at the moment.”

This wasn't about a lost phone. They had taken it away from him. Why? He couldn’t deduce it. Not nearly enough data. “Mycroft. Tell me what happened!”

“It's… a misunderstanding. Will be fine. Will buy a new phone, just for… private stuff.”

Sherlock knew his brother had never had one. Their parents never called him on his mobile. They insisted on using his landline. And Mycroft and Sherlock had only ever texted when either of them needed relief. And Mycroft did not have any friends. “Misunderstanding. What sort of misunderstanding?”

Mycroft made no attempt at sitting down and explaining. He turned around to leave.

“Mycroft! You must tell me!”

“You can't help me, Sherlock. I made a mistake. Talked to an agent without anyone else in the room. A female agent.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand. And then he did… “You've got to be kidding!”

Mycroft gave him the saddest smile Sherlock had ever seen on his face. “No.”

“They can't seriously believe…”

“Not sure if they do. But how shall I prove my innocence? Nobody else was there.”

Sherlock shook his head in horror. Then his jaw tightened for just a second and Mycroft missed it as he was looking down on his feet now. “Go home. Relax. Text me when you've got your new number.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes.” And then he turned and left, with the heavy steps of an old, defeated man.

Sherlock pulled out his phone as soon as he heard the front door closing behind him. No texting now.

_“Hello?”_

“Anthea.”

 _“Um… Hello Kelly. What?”_ He heard her turning away from the phone _. “Sorry, my sister. Will be right back.”_ Good girl… _“Mr Holmes. How is he?”_

“Devastated. I need a name.” He heard her taking a deep breath. He didn’t say anything.

 _“Sabrina Monaghan.”_ And she added an address. And the name of a man Sherlock had heard rumours about.

She had waited for his call.

“Thank you.”

_“Please… Don't do anything stupid. He doesn't need any more pain.”_

“Me? Never!”

_“Sherlock…”_

He grew serious again. “Hurting him is the last thing on my mind. Thanks for being on his side.”

Anthea snorted. _“I always will. Fuck them all.”_

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle, and then he thanked her again, ended the connection, and fetched his laptop. Plenty of time now. No reason to hurry. Bright daylight wasn't the right time for taking actions. Now was the time to do some unauthorised and untraceable research in certain top secret government files. Years ago he had made sure to have all the information for sneaking into their servers. He had known one day it would pay out. But he would have never guessed it would be for such a cause.

He had the basic information but it never hurt to know everything one could.

**°°°°°**

Sherlock glanced at his phone and smiled. Three am. Perfect timing. He made light and then he stepped to the bed again, this time not bothering to be quiet.

The woman cuddled up in her blanket shifted, the light of the lamp directly shining into her face. She blinked and then she shot up.

“Good morning!” Sherlock yelled, beaming at her, his hands on his hips. He was dressed in black from head to toe, including black leather gloves. No need to leave any fingerprints.

“What… Who…” She broke off, and he could see the pulse in her carotid racing. Her eyes were huge, her red hair floating around her naked shoulders. Her eyes widened even more and he knew she recognised him. Well, it wasn’t a secret that he and Mycroft were brothers.

“I'll call the police!” she rasped out. Her look darted to the nightstand. The empty nightstand. He had been in her bedroom before. She had a deep sleep for someone who should feel so guilty…

“Oh, your phone, yes, it's in the toilet I'm afraid. Not sure if it still works.”

“What do you want?!”

“Just a friendly chatter!” Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, and then he took a knife out of his coat pocket. A very long knife. He removed the sheath.

She bit her lip so hard that he could see drops of blood pearling out of it. “You… You can't do that! How did you even get in?!”

“Oh, you should really overthink your security,” Sherlock said with a thoughtful shake of his head. “Not worth a penny I'd say.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Your brother is in so much trouble…”

“My brother has no idea that I'm here.” The playful tone had disappeared from Sherlock's voice. “ _Nobody_ knows I'm here. So, here's the deal: tomorrow morning, oh, it's rather today, you will call Lady Smallwood and tell her that your infamous allegations against my brother were just lies. Which we both know they were. You told them this bullshit to discredit him and sneak your way out of being accused of being a traitor. Which you are, even though you did it for the best of reasons: because you are in love with a fucking terrorist. Congratulations!”

“No, I will absolutely not…”

“Because if you _don't_ do it,” Sherlock continued as if she hadn't said anything, “I will come back. Me and my knife. And I'll cut you into pieces.” His voice had dropped to ice. He stared at her, putting all his wrath and hatred for this pathetic girl into his look.

Mycroft had texted him a few hours ago. His text had just said, _'nu numbr, Serlock, Mycoft'._ He had been drunk.

Sherlock hoped he was sleeping now, pissed and exhausted as he had to be.

“You just talk,” she spat out, but he could hear that she was frightened.

“And when I'm finished cutting you into neat little pieces, I'll visit your dear mother and do the same to her. And your younger brother, well, I won't do anything to _him_. I know someone who has a weakness for cute young boys and he will show him a thing or two before he starts sharing him with other men.”

She turned white now. “You wouldn't dare!”

Sherlock ignored her again. “So you will tell the truth, plain and simple. My brother didn’t touch you in any way. Better be convincing, and I don't have to tell you that you won't mention my visit, right? You will lose your job and face trials. Perhaps you will find you should leave the country instead. Mr Wentworth must have contacts…” He could see the thoughts whirling in her head. “But don't get me wrong – if you go before my brother has been cleared of these false accusations, I will hunt you down. You and your family. You know who I am. I can do that. And I will.”

“I… don't believe you!”

Sherlock smiled and he knew how this sort of smile looked. She cringed. “Have you ever seen pictures of the last victim of Jack the Ripper? Disembowelled, hacked, hardly recognisable as the young woman that she had been, poor Mary Jane Kelly. Her intestines were all over the room. She had been partly skinned and her breasts were not in the right place anymore. Nothing was, actually. That's how you will look. As well as your old, innocent mother. You know I love autopsies! All the blood and the smell!” He grinned from ear to ear and waved with the knife.

And she turned and threw up onto the floor next to her bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried not to breathe. He only spoke again when her sweaty, sick face appeared again. “Well, I see you understand me. I'll give you time until eight. Then you will have contacted Lady Smallwood. Even better – go to her. And if you mention my name, well…” He threw the knife that he had never touched with his bare hands with full force. It bored into the headboard right next to her head and stuck there, shivering. He'd always had a weak spot for knifes.

The young woman screamed, bringing her hands to her face.

Sherlock smiled again in this deadly way. “Are we clear?”

She nodded, her face as pale as the corpse she would become if she didn’t do exactly as he'd told her.

**°°°°°**

"Oh, up early, huh?"

"Yes, John."

"Any client coming that I don't know of?"

"Don't think so." Sherlock glanced at his phone. Nine. And still no word from his brother... Had he slept in? Had they failed to reach him? Or had this damn woman not done what he had ordered her to do? He could have called Mycroft but he decided to give him a few more minutes.

“You all right?”

“Perfectly.”

And then he heard the unmistakable noise of a government car. He smiled. The doorbell. He had already got up to open up.

"Oh, _you_ are the butler today?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yep. That leaves the twat for you." He heard Mycroft's steps. Vivid, energetic steps. No hangover. No bad news.

Their eyes met when Mycroft had almost reached the top step. Sherlock held his gaze and then he turned to John. He had dropped his 'what do you want, Mycroft' attitude and he was rather sure he wouldn’t return to it. Not even John could miss that he did like his brother…

The doctor gave him a confused look and then he cleared his throat and said, "Biscuits. We need biscuits!"

"Ginger nuts, John."

"Yes! Definitely! Morning Mycroft! Bye Mycroft!" And with this he had taken his jacket and was clattering down the stairs.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." But Mycroft didn't look at the shorter man. His eyes were glued to Sherlock.

Sherlock made a step back so he could enter the flat, and he closed the door.

Mycroft leaned his inevitable umbrella against the wall and slipped out of his coat. Sherlock took it and hung it up. Then he faced his brother again.

"You terrifying boy," Mycroft finally broke the silence.

Sherlock grinned. "Terrific, you mean."

"Both, Sherlock. Definitely both." And then Mycroft made another step and cupped Sherlock's face with his large hands.

Sherlock shuddered at the warmth of his brother's skin. And then Mycroft bent forward and kissed him, and Sherlock embraced his waist.

They stood there for minutes, their tongues tangling, the air between them crackling. Finally Mycroft pulled back, his eyes boring into Sherlock's again. “Brother mine,” he simply said, a definite salute in his tone.

The detective smiled. "Did they apologise?"

"Yes, they did."

"Did you glare at them?"

"Frighteningly."

"All good now?"

"Yes. Thank you..."

"Ah, my motivation was entirely selfish. Need you in a good mood, you know."

Mycroft smiled. Then he kissed Sherlock on the nose. "Will you come over tonight?"

"Of course I will."

"I'll bring champagne."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Nah. We don't need it. Can celebrate in better ways."

"So reasonable."

"Not quite..."

Mycroft's smile got wider and he gently squeezed Sherlock's arm. "I need to go back,” he said then. “There is lots of work waiting."

"Sure."

Suddenly Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “We will talk about hacking into government servers later.”

“No, we won't.”

Mycroft came very close and breathed into his ear, “Yes, we will.”

Sherlock winked. “Can't wait…”

"Just out of curiosity: what did you tell her?"

Sherlock smirked. "I might have mentioned a nice name from the past."

"Oh. Jack the Ripper... Your old obsession... You were so sure you knew who it was…"

“I _know_ it!”

“You can't prove it!” Mycroft smiled. "Paid out, definitely. I should have known your morbid interests would someday come in handy." He sighed when his phone vibrated. "Sorry, I need to leave."

But he didn't look at the phone in this moment. Instead he kissed Sherlock again before he turned to go after squeezing his waist.

Sherlock nodded to himself when he returned to the living room. Another task completed.

Mycroft had his back; he had saved him so many times.

And Sherlock had Mycroft's, even though he'd never had to save him before.

He'd always have his back.

There was nothing he wouldn't do for his brother.

Nothing.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always been fascinated by Jack the Ripper. Probably nobody will ever know who he was but I thought who if not Sherlock could deduce it? 
> 
> But if you thought about it - only google the pictures of his last victim Mary Jane Kelly if you have nerves of steel. They are horrible. Poor girl!


End file.
